I.
A dropped, ripe
Peach
Peach
The soft pink flesh
of the sky
bruised with purple
clouds.
My burly neighbor
out on a walk
holding hands
with his nearly
grown
son.
II.
I think of fathers,
fathers I have known,
fathers who do not
take walks at
sunset with
their sons;
Who do not
hold their
grown sons'
unbruised
hands.
III.
Fathers who
do not
send their
sons
to war.
IV.
Singular events
have no less
happened,
and perhaps
in time
there will be
more.
Perhaps there
will
will
be
more.
more.